


Pretty Boy (in Pretty Things)

by MoMoMomma



Series: Kinktober 2018 [9]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Lingerie, M/M, Panty Kink, Phone Sex, Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 14:52:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16243922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoMoMomma/pseuds/MoMoMomma
Summary: Rook likes pretty things. John likes Rook in said pretty things.





	Pretty Boy (in Pretty Things)

Rook does _not_ scream when he feels his pants slide down his thighs. He does not, because he is a respected member of the Sheriff’s Department--such as it is in Hope County--and such behavior is unbecoming of a person of his standing. 

He does, however, call John Seed a “scum-sucking son of a bitch!” Because he deserves it. And it’s true.

“Who the fuck pulls a man’s pants down?” Rook twists against the ground, kicking out at the grip John still has around his pants leg. “Let _go_ of me, you twisted fucker!”

John, shockingly, _does_. He lets go, pushes up onto his hands and knees, eyes locked a little lower than Rook’s face. It’s only when Rook sits up for a second, pants tangled around his calves, that the breeze catches sensitive skin and he _remembers_.

He swallows thickly, traces John’s gaze like it’s a sniper sight. “Oh fuck me.”

“My, my, my,” John’s out of breath but still somehow annoying as hell. “It would seem our Deputy kept a few sins to himself. Is this a new fetish, Rook, or an old one?”

“I will fucking kill you.” Rook snaps, twisting to grab for his jeans, trying to wriggle them up his hips without exposing himself any further.

Which is nigh on impossible since the only panties he’d been able to find as of late came from a delivery _Adelaide_ had picked through, thrown what she hadn’t wanted his way after she’d caught his gaze lingering. Laughed a little with a purred “take what you like, sugar, I already got the ones I want”. 

Which meant they were cut for women, little more than string, and fucking _crotchless_.

He is going to get himself killed one day for his creature comforts. He’s honestly shocked he hasn’t yet. 

“You can tell me.” John pushes to his feet, unsteady and still panting, wavering in place like he’s drunk. “I’m meant to take confession.”

“You can take this fist to the face.” Rook tells him sternly, cheeks too red as he climbs to standing. 

He’s not doing much better, both of them out of weapons and out of breath. What had started as John getting sick of the incompetence of his hunter’s and going after Rook himself had ended with both of them running through the Montana wilderness, hurling curses and scrapping like schoolyard kids every time they caught up with each other. Rook had lost his gun when John had tackled him into bushes that hid a sloping drop off a cliffside and John had lost his when Rook had ripped it from his hands and thrown it into the Henbane.

He’s exhausted, too far from safety, but so is John. They can either duke it out here and now, which will probably end up with both of them passed out in the worst possible place, or they can walk away. Live to fight another day.

John snorts when Rook tells him as much, but there’s a doubt in his eyes, a curious curl to his shoulders that says he’s considering Rook’s words more than he lets on. 

“I am willing to fight until the end. This is the will of the Father.” John tells him, but the seriousness is lost in the way he’s still gasping for air. “You will come with me. You will confess, and you will Atone.”

“Oh, fucking eat me.” Rook snaps. “I’m not confessing to shit. I’m not playing your little games. You are gonna walk away or so help me god, I’m going to make you wish you did.”

“What are you going to do?” John advances on him, stalking like a puppy, nothing like his brother’s no matter how hard he tries. “Hm? Take off your pretty underthings and _choke_ me with them?”

“Oh, you’d fucking like that.” 

They’re circling each other now. Snapping wolves unwilling to take the first bite. Neither of them is stupid enough to hit first, expend the energy, show their hand before it’s time. 

“You know, couple people have told me about you, John. How you’re not as pious as you like to pretend. A couple of my friends even suggested I just fuck you, get it over with, make you calm your ass down a bit.”

John’s cheeks mottle red, caught out without a good excuse, and he does his best trout impression for a few long moments, mouth opening and snapping shut in rapid succession. It’s a point of pride that Rook’s able to steal words right out of the mouth of the best silver-tongued devil in town, but it doesn’t last long.

“Have your fun, Deputy, and enjoy this momentary lapse. I will come for you again.”

Rook flips him off as John turns and stomps the other way. He’s sure he’ll have to deal with it eventually, but for right now he’s got a couple wounds that need patching and a body in serious need of sleep.

And he has to find a change in underwear before these stupid things--stupid, so stupid, why had he put them on _knowing_ he wasn’t just going to be sitting behind a desk all day?--get him killed.

.O.

“You got mail, sweetheart.”

“Huh?” Rook glances up from checking over his ammo--why does he always end up with SMG ammo? He doesn’t even _use_ one.--when Adelaide saunters her way over. “What is it?”

“Dunno. Xander found it this morning, set out on the pier.” Adelaide shakes the envelope, thick manila like they used to use in the Sheriff’s office. “Hasn’t started ticking or blew my marina to kingdom come so must be alright. Maybe something from another region?”

Unlikely, but it’s a possibility. Rook’s first order of business in each region had been to liberate where Dutch had advised; the lumber mill, the county jail, and Fall’s End all back under Resistance control. It was nice to have a meeting place for anyone who wanted to fight back against the cult, and it offered a guaranteed safe place to rest as he ran around driving the Herald’s nuts. 

Rook motions to the crate he’s currently using as a desk, murmuring a “just stick it there, I’ll get to it in a minute.”

Adelaide looks like she wants to protest, probably more than a little curious, but someone calls her name from the outside of the boathouse and she complies with a sigh. 

“Tell me what’cha got.” She calls over her shoulder, Rook grunting an affirmative as he starts stacking up his supplies.

What he’s got, he discovers after carefully slicing the envelope open and dumping the contents into one palm, is a pair of new underwear. Ones that have a hell of a lot more fabric, slick and shiny under the lights above, and carefully still wrapped in the plastic packaging. Rook whips his head around, scowls despite no one being there to see him, and hurries to the back office.

Radio calls aren’t particularly private, so he’ll have to be careful. But he’s gotta say something.

“You’re such a pain in the ass.” He grits into the radio, tuned to the last channel John had called him on to bother him about being a sinner as he tore through the valley. 

There isn’t an immediate response--which is amusing because normally insulting John is immediately met with snarled threats and snappy comebacks--so Rook opens the package. The plastic crinkling almost seems too loud, makes his heartbeat jump and his head twist around like someone’s going to come investigate. 

How the hell is he going to explain standing in a back office with a pair of silk--they are silk, soft and almost too delicate for the callouses on his fingers as he pulls them free--panties in his hands.

“Deputy! I thought you’d enjoy my gift. Better suited, no?”

Rook rolls his eyes, balls the scrap of fabric in one fist as he scoops up the radio.

“I can’t use the gift, so it’s about worthless.”

“What?” John sounds affronted, like he’d expected Rook to start singing his praises. “Why not?”

“Because the fabric isn’t going to _work_ , you idiot.” Rook is very specific in his choices and for good fucking reason at this point. “I run around all damn day trying to keep you crazy assholes from murdering people or sending them to your stupid Atonement. Have you ever stepped in water and tried to walk around with a wet sock?”

John doesn’t respond, and Rook can’t actually imagine he has. John seems the type to immediately sit himself down and demand to be brought new socks the second something unpleasant like that happen.

And then burn the offending socks for daring to make his precious foot uncomfortable.

“It. Chafes.” He says slowly, before turning the radio off and volleying the underwear into a nearby trash can. 

Pity. The cut didn’t look all that bad--full coverage for women tends to mean his cock and balls won’t be strangled too terribly--but he’s not about to deal with trying to liberate outposts with his underwear glued to his body with sweat. 

No matter how pretty they were.

.O.

The next pair gets dropped off at Fall’s End. On the steps of Jerome’s church, which is something Rook will address the next time John tries to lecture him on being a sinner. There’s sinning by rebelling against a cult trying to literally murder its way to the top of the food chain, and then there’s sinning by dropping off lingerie on the steps of an actual _church_.

This time, though, the present had come doubled. Tripled, if he wants to be particular about it.

Underneath the delicate fabric, wrapped this time like it was ordered from an actual lingerie store, was a cell phone. One that was still locked to inside the county--Rook had immediately tried to call to Missoula because he’s not an idiot--but that had a single entry into the contact log.

“You realize this isn’t going to work either?”

John blows out a frustrated breath on the other side of the phone, panting slightly like he’d seen the call come through and rushed to privacy. 

“What’s wrong with it this time?”

“Well, for one, I don’t actually tend to wear bras.” Rook dangles said bra from one finger by the strap. “It’s pretty, don’t get me wrong, and I like how they feel. But I’m running around most of the time. And bras can be pretty hard on the nipples.”

“So stop running around.” John snaps.

“See, I’d love to. I really would. Because the bra does fit--I did at least try it on this time--and I’d be totally comfortable wearing it around the house on my day off. Lounging around maybe with just this and some sweatpants and the panties.”

John makes a half-choked moan, like he’s picturing it in his head, but Rook cuts off his response.

“ _Except_. I don’t get days off anymore. Because some crazy fucks have decided to start abducting people for their doomsday.”

“Could you not simply wear them on a less...adventurous day? Or,” John snorts, “stop fighting against people who just want to help you?”

“I don’t _have_ less adventurous days.”

“Could you just put them on long enough to send a picture?” John snaps.

Ah. He figured, to be honest. It’s not like he thought he and John were going to bond over some shared little kink. There’s always an ulterior motive behind his crazy actions. 

Thank god this call is private and not over the radio. He’d be out forty bucks, and Sharky and Adelaide would be teasing him for the rest of his life.

“They’re lace. I don’t like lace. It feels weird against my skin.”

“Weird how?” There’s a shift in the background and Rook fights back the urge to hang up.

“Weird as in not good. So get your hand off your cock.”

“I wasn’t--”

“I’m going to throw these away.” Rook tells John, talking right over his whiny--and completely fake--protest. “Stop sending me things. You’re not very good at it.”

“If you would just _tell_ me what you like--”

“And to what end, John? So I can put them on and literally never see you? I’m not going to send you pictures or meet up with you willingly. You’d get no satisfaction from this.”

There’s a long enough pause Rook draws the phone from his ear, checks to make sure he hasn’t lost signal. It’s only John’s heavy sigh that stops him from hanging up. 

“Make me a deal.”

“Absolutely not.”

“ _Deputy_!” John hisses, Rook grinning widely at the immediate rage in his voice. “Stop being so wrathful for one--No. No, I won’t rise to the bait.”

“You sure? Seemed like you were rising.”

“Agree to this: if I find you a pair that you like, lingerie that you would not only wear but wear _happily_ , you will show me.”

“I’m not letting your people kidnap me into your little sex dungeon so it can become an _actual_ sex dungeon.”

“A picture, nothing more.” John’s like a dog with a bone, jaws clamping down now that he sees even the slightest possibility. “Just a picture of yourself in them.”

Rook has been warned, since he was old enough to have a phone, not to do that. Spent many times trapped wherever his mother had cornered him being lectured on how anything he shares is out there forever. Pictures don’t just vanish and he can never be sure the person he’s sending it to won’t send it to others.

But it’s not like John’s going to whip out the picture at the family dinner--though Rook would pay good money to see Joseph and Jacob’s expressions if he did.

John has more to lose if someone finds the picture than Rook does, in all truth.

“Alright,” he sighs, letting the bra fall onto the bed. “Fine. Find me something I’ll wear even now, running around fighting for my life. And I will send you one picture.”

“What sort of things do you--”

“Nope!” Rook relishes in popping the word, leaning back against the bed as John all but growls into his ear. “I’m not helping you. You’ve got that big lawyer brain--you figure it out on your own.”

He hangs up just as John starts shouting, feeling lighter than he has for days. 

.O.

It takes a few more mistakes, but John is careful about them. _He_ sends pictures, snaps from webpages or screenshots. Rook doesn’t give him much to go on, mostly little comments of “not enough fabric” or “not sexy” or, when he’s feeling particularly annoying, “Bleh. Bad color.”

But John is, at the end of the day, very fucking smart. And incredibly persistent. And the Sheriff wriggles a package at him the next time he drops by the jail with a snort and a “thought mail was all but gone.” He grabs it with a flushed face, murmuring something about news from one of the other regions, and hurries off.

It takes some convincing--but not a lot because Dr. Lindsey is usually happy to do as he asks after almost accidentally getting him killed with the failed angel bait--but Rook slots himself into a room. Locks the door behind him, even plasters a piece of paper with random scribbles on it over the window so no one peers in. He doesn’t even want to know what Tracey would say if she walked in on him--if she could get enough breath in between laughter to speak.

Rook hates to admit it...but the fabric he unveils from the envelope, lovingly folded with a note on top that just says “can’t wait to see you in these,” is _perfect_. It’s tight mesh, not big enough to bite in uncomfortably but not small enough to seem excessive in favor of fabric. Cut differently than he’s seen before too, used to slipping into women’s lingerie stores and buying what he needs because _no one_ seems to understand what discreet packaging means.

Better to grin and lie his way through buying a present for a non-existent girlfriend than to potentially leave a box from “Adam’s Delights: Foremost Supplier of Men’s Pleasure” sitting on his front porch until he gets off shift.

He picks up his phone as he turns them around, snorting slightly at the way the entire ass is missing. John probably came across his phone when he found these. It takes a moment to send the “Not bad” text out, before Rook deposits the phone on the table and starts stripping.

It goes off a few times as he’s pulling off his pants and plain black briefs. Rook ignores it, stepping into the panties and drawing them up until they’re in place. He wriggles around, trying to find flaws, curses under his breath when there isn’t a single one. 

They don’t just _look_ good, they feel fucking amazing. Make him feel sexy, like he’d put them on and wait the entire day for some imaginary lover to slip their hand down the back of his pants for a surprise. He smooths his hands over his hips, over the fabric, watches it pull tight and cling before releasing just loose enough he could run around comfortably in these.

Damnit.

There’s a slew of messages when he picks the phone back up, each one amusing him more as they grow frantic and demanding.

**Not bad? What the hell does that mean?**

**Not bad as in I love them, John or not bad as in I’m getting closer?**

**Answer. Me.**

**Are you putting them on?**

**You have to at least send me a picture if you’ve put them on. You didn’t try the other ones on.**

**DEPUTY. ANSWER THE PHONE.**

It rings in his hand just as he’s going to respond, probably for the best because the new sexy feeling makes him coquettish, makes him even more likely to tease. John’s already breathing hard when he picks up, like he’d been ranting to himself in annoyance as he shot off more texts than Rook used to get in a day. 

“Deputy.”

“I like them, alright? You did good.”

“You have to--there were terms to you liking them.”

“Terms that you set.” Rook rolls his eyes at John’s affronted noise. “Relax. I’m gonna send you a picture. I just gotta figure out how.”

He’s never been good at it. Partially because he doesn’t send them and partially because Rook isn’t one for selfies. Never quite gets the angle right, always gives himself an accidental double chin or picks lighting that seems to highlight his flaws. 

But there’s a small mirror lean up against one filing cabinet, haphazardly like someone was just trying to shove it out of the way. If Rook believed in God, he’d be fairly amused at the random happenstance that’s letting all this happen.

“Rook?”

“Hang on. Let me hang up and send it.” Because he’s already nervous, palms slick and heart picking up the pace in his chest. He can’t stay on the phone when he does it.

He does so before John has a chance to protest, clicking to end the call and open the camera. It takes some finagling, turning this way and that, bracing in different directions before the intelligent part of his brain snaps it’s going to a cult Herald and not being posted on his Grindr--the quality doesn’t matter.

He winds up getting a picture from the navel down, feet planted apart, fabric stretching across his cock. Rook’s chubbing up from adrenaline alone, from the feeling in his brain telling him this is wrong, bad, _naughty_. Good a picture as any, he supposes.

He sends it off, waits until the little sending circle stops, and calls back. 

“That took an inordinately long time.”

“I don’t go around sending pictures of myself in panties to everyone.” Rook drawls, “it took me a few minutes to figure out what the fuck to do.”

John makes a distracted noise, further away than he was seconds ago. He just got it, Rook realizes, hadn’t had a chance to open it before he called back. He finds himself pressing the phone tighter to his ear, until there’s a subtle ache, wanting to hear John’s reaction in real time.

And hear he does. John moans, shaky and soft, before he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “perfect.”

“They’re men’s,” John says, clearly trying for level once he brings the phone back to his ear. “They make those, you know. You don’t have to continue to buy things made for women.”

“And you expect me to get them delivered--how?”

“I could get them for you.” There’s no question in John’s tone, totally self-assured he can do as he says, and Rook believes him.

If anyone could get men’s lingerie into the hellscape that is Hope County at the moment, it’s John fucking Seed. 

“What’s your angle here, John?”

“I like pretty things.” John answers without a touch of hesitation, almost too fast. “And you, Deputy, are quite the pretty thing in those.”

“You’re getting off on this.”

There’s no usual bluster. No shrieking about sins and how _dare_ Rook accuse such a pious figure of something so base? Just a quiet exhale, still shaky, shuddering out like John’s fighting so hard for control everything is a carefully thought out action. 

“Yes,” he breathes as Rook shifts his weight, cups a hand over his cock without thinking. 

What do you know? Turns out John’s far less annoying when he’s breathing unsteady into Rook’s ear over the phone than he is spitting threats over a radio.

“What are you doing?”

“What are _you_ doing?” John shoots back, teeth flashing in Rook’s mind, an animal lashing out at a helping hand because it’s unused to the charity. 

“I’m touching myself. The fabric is--these underwear--” Everything is a bit disjointed, seems a bit cheap. “It’s nice. I like it.”

John’s moan is breathy, punched out, the very end trailing into a desperate sort of whine. Rook backs up, sets himself down on a couch he probably shouldn’t be sitting on with his pants still on the floor, and braces his feet wide. Rocks up into the grind of his palm. 

Whether John copies him or not, Rook’s going to do this. It’s been too long, too much space in between times of pleasure and the ridiculous amount of pain he seems to spend his days in. 

And aside from that, he really does like the panties. Good underwear always tees something up inside him, makes him twitchy, begging for release.

“Are you--tell me what you’re doing.” It’s a command, John like commanding people, but for once it doesn’t kick up Rook’s hackles. 

“I just told you. I’m touching myself. Through the fabric, just kinda grinding against my palm. S’alright, though. It’s good.”

“You could--you could touch your cock.”

“I could.” Rook agrees easily, thighs tense as he thrusts up against his hand. “But I don’t wanna. I like it like this.”

John’s moving in the background, the subtle shift of clothes and skin against skin in Rook’s ear. He doesn’t make a lot of noise--which either means he’s forced to be quiet because of where he is or he doesn’t want to miss any noises Rook makes because he’d put money on John being loud in bed. But he’s groaning softly, words half-cut off, nothing intelligible but enticing nonetheless.

Rook comes like that, makes a mess inside his brand new panties, when John moans his name. It’s desperate and yearning, needy in ways he knew John was, and it sounds just the right side of broken. He’s shaking in the aftermath, trembling as he listens to John edge closer and closer to the edge. 

“Rook--Deputy, I--”

“I’m gonna need new ones.” Rook murmurs, dragging one finger over the slick front of his panties. “These are ruined now. You gonna make good on your word, John? Buy me more pretty things? Promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Anything, yes, _yes_.” 

John shakes apart, words falling to nothing as Rook sags back up against the couch. He feels sleepy, boneless, but he knows this downtime has a limit. He’s going to have to get up, put on his briefs--the idea of which makes his lip curl--and keep ruining Eden’s Gate’s plans. But this felt good, felt _right_. Not every problem has to be solved with a bullet.

“I’ll let you know where I am, whenever you order the next one.” Rook says. “So you can get it to me as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, I--you could...come here? I wouldn’t keep you.” John rushes out before Rook can even protest. “I just--I’d like to see. Pictures are all well and good but to be able to see, to _touch_ \--”

“These were good. Find me something _great_ and we might just have a deal.”

He hangs up in the middle of John’s enthusiastic agreement. Everything’s starting to become just a bit uncomfortable and he can hear people talking closer to the door, the illusion of privacy rapidly disappearing. But it’s alright. Whatever sort of tentative agreement he and John just came to is good. A little bit of brightness, if crazy, in the middle of all the bad.

And he gets cute panties out of it. Rook’s always been one for looking on the bright side.

**Author's Note:**

> Big shoutout to Laney for giving me this prompt FOREVER ago, sorry it took me so long to write it! <3  
> Wanna check what's up next for Kinktober? Check out [this post](http://momomomma2.tumblr.com/post/178633371556/happy-kinktober) on my Tumblr!


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